Capriccio (26 page)

“There goes my song,” I said to John.

Victor continued his fawning conversation. “Stay at your villa? That sounds charming, Contessa. No, I’ll be alone. I’m an old bachelor. . . . (Another delighted laugh) If you insist then, a
young
bachelor. Perhaps your husband and I . . . Ah, forgive me, I didn’t know. . . . (His tone vibrated with sympathy) Yes, I know all about loneliness, that’s nothing new to me. But I have a much better idea! Why don’t you come to Toronto and see the concert live? Let me make the arrangements. I insist.”

John and I exchanged a disbelieving stare.

“Why don’t we arrange it by letter then? And my dear Contessa . . . Maria? Charming! Could a bachelor be very forward and ask you to enclose a picture of yourself? You have the advantage on me. I have no idea what you look like, but if your beauty matches your lovely voice, I shall be the envy of North America.”

There were a few more crooning murmurs, too subdued to make it through the door. “Where’s Gino?” I asked John.

“I imagine he’s consummating a life insurance policy next door, right about now. No, seriously, he said someone should explain to Mrs. Friske what’s been going on and volunteered to do it.”

“Beat you to it, huh?”

In a minute Victor came out rubbing his hands in glee. “It’s done. She’s coming, and until she gets here, she’ll send you a letter giving you permission for me to keep the Stradivarius till she arrives. Meanwhile, I’ll be playing it at my next concert.”

I knew that look. “Meanwhile” would be as long as he lived. By hook or crook, he’d end up with the Carpani Strad if he had to marry the Contessa to get it. But for the present, he was content to phone Marven and demand its return.

The next move was to look after his other girlfriend, Eleanor Strathroy. John, whose only interest was in saving his insurance company money, aided and abetted him every step of the way. It wasn’t done in a morning, especially with so many interviews to be conducted. The affair couldn’t be kept entirely silent, but with cooperation from Victor and the Contessa in not pressing charges, with the remainder of the haul from her villa returned, with Ronald’s “resignation” from Graymar and Eleanor’s selling her mansion to pay off his debts, it passed into history with hardly a ripple, and with no jail term for Ronald. Mr. Etherington was brought to nominal justice on a former crime—three months is what he actually got—but the big losers were the Strathroys even if it wasn’t legal justice.

They are consigned to the suburbs in an area east of Toronto called Scarborough but more familiarly known as Scarberia. A fate worse than death for them. I give it a year, maximum, before Eleanor finds either a rich husband for herself or a rich bride for Ronald. One should feel some outrage, I suppose, but it’s hard to be outraged when you’ve just gotten engaged. I have more important things to do, like talk John into shaving off his moustache, take him to a decent tailor, and convince Mom he’ll be a good husband even if he isn’t Italian.

My visions still occur. I see us walking by the Seine, hand-in-hand, smiling at the chestnut trees and water. I see us in John’s flat in London, receiving frantic calls to dash off to Rome, New York, Paris, having to cancel the duchess’s dinner invitation. I see myself in designer labels, solving baffling cases. I think John sees me in a frilly apron, waving him off from behind the white picket fence while he solves the crimes. Or perhaps he’s come to know me better than that. We sybarites must have a little excitement, as well as our material pleasure, and his career offers considerable scope in that direction. It is, after all, the very wealthy who have their diamonds and things stolen. Perhaps my visions are slightly exaggerated, but I enjoy them for all that, as I have every intention of enjoying the reality of a two-by-four life with John.
C’est la vie
.

Copyright © 1989 by Joan Smith

Originally published by Jove

Electronically published in 2003 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.